


Sonorous Symphony

by Thornypeach



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Captain John Watson, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Married Sex, Melancholy, POV John Watson, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock's Violin, Sleepy John Watson, how to play your favorite musician, mood music, sweet and sexy, yours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornypeach/pseuds/Thornypeach
Summary: Sherlock takes my hand and presses  his lips into my palm, lingering for a long moment as he inhales and exhales slowly. He drags his face to the side, resting his cheek in my hand. I feel the gentle roughness of the stubble on his face as I smooth my thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, waiting for him to open up.





	Sonorous Symphony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elldotsee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/gifts), [searchingforlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforlight/gifts).



It is late, really late, when I wake from a deep sleep. I stretch my arm out and feel around the bed beside me. The pillow is cool and fully fluffed.  _ So he hasn’t been to bed yet _ , I think, glancing around the room to see if my mercurial husband is there. No sign.

 

The muted sound of violin music floats in from behind the closed door. I smile. I have always loved the way Sherlock plays - even more so because it often eases the way in figuring out just what mood I need to be prepared to deal with. I slip out of bed and step gingerly onto the cold floorboards. The music swells to a crescendo as I reach for the knob.  _ Ah, we’re feeling melancholy, then _ . 

 

Opening the door, I notice that Sherlock has only turned on the light on his music stand. Hmm, moodier still. I yawn involuntarily and shake my head, making my way to the sitting room. It really is quite late.

 

I knock gently on the doorframe. Sherlock doesn’t respond. I stand for a moment, watching my musician’s shoulders ease and tense as he draws the bow across the strings. The violin sings with sadness. A composition, I think … in a minor key, the notes drawn out long and sorrowful, with the occasional discord and aching moments of silence that feel almost too long. Oh, my Sherlock, what has you feeling so blue?

 

I cross the space between us and cautiously reach out, smoothing my hand over Sherlock’s shoulder blade. His shirt is smooth and cool beneath my fingertips. The music doesn’t stop, but the muscles under my hand bunch with tension, and then release as a sigh escapes Sherlock’s lungs.

 

“Okay, Love?” I whisper leaning in to place a kiss against the back of his neck. His skin is warm and the curls that brush my nose are a little damp. I glance over Sherlock’s shoulder at the window. It was raining … still is raining. 

 

“Mm,” he hums in response, focused still on the music. 

 

“I’ll just stay with you and listen. Play or talk, I’m here.” I take the two short steps to the sofa and slid onto it, curling up on my side with the throw pillow beneath my head. I yawn again.

 

It is nearly impossible to stay awake. The sitting room is dark and cozy, only the glow of Sherlock’s music stand illuminating the flow of his body while he plays. It is almost a dance, I think, smiling as I recall the last time we danced together. Our bodies pressed together, his long arms holding me, leading me through steps I would have thought impossible to accomplish on my own. I sigh. It’s been too long.

 

“John,” Sherlock whispers sometime later. I hadn’t noticed when he’d stopped playing … I must have fallen asleep.

 

“Hm?” I ask, reaching my arm out toward his voice without opening my eyes. Hoping to find him close.

 

Sherlock takes my hand and presses  his lips into my palm, lingering for a long moment as he inhales and exhales slowly. He drags his face to the side, resting his cheek in my hand. I feel the gentle roughness of the stubble on his face as I smooth my thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone, waiting for him to open up. 

 

After another long moment of silence, I will my eyelids, heavy with fatigue, to lift so that I can study the emotions on his face now that the music has gone. Sherlock is watching me, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes drifting in and out of focus. Thinking about something, then, but what?

 

“Can I help?” I ask, by now accustomed to the way my love works through things. Often, I can do nothing but stay. I am okay with that. 

 

Sherlock focuses on my face, searching it for … something, his eyes darting to and fro.  Still, I wait, blinking slowly. Just when I think I might drift off again, Sherlock drops to his knees, wraps his long fingers around the back of my neck, and kisses  me. As often they are, his kiss is desperate and deep, making my blood race through my body. I inhale deeply, feeling the fog of sleep quickly lift, replaced by adrenaline. 

 

I shift so that I can wrap my free arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him as close as I can while he’s still kneeling on the floor. The arm Sherlock had captured earlier slides up so my fingers can thread into his hair, and I trace tiny circles into the rain-damp nape of his neck. Sherlock’s tongue teases my lip, waiting for me to let him in. When I do part my lips, our tongues press together. Sliding and probing - tasting each other as if it were the first time, reaching for a nearness that is never, could never be enough.

 

Pulling back, Sherlock breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine while we gasp for air. Our breaths mingle between us and I’m lightheaded, my brain not quite caught up with the rest of me. Sherlock stands, offering his hands to me. I take them, allowing himself to be lifted to stand. I watch as his long fingers release the buttons of his own shirt, my mind swirling with thoughts that slip away before I can focus on them. Sherlock is sad, which makes my heart ache, but he seems to also be feeling … afraid? Insecure? Alone? I can’t quite capture it before he tosses his shirt to the  floor where it lands in a heap. I think briefly about how he normally puts his shirts on the back of a chair so they won’t wrinkle, until he is helping to rid me of my shirt and coherent thought escapes entirely. His fingers brush my sides as he lifts the white cotton up, over my head, and abandons it to the floor as well. My nerves crackle with the touch, always aware of his hands on my skin.

 

I look up at him, taking in the furrowed brow and the slightly turned-down mouth as I reach out, placing a hand flat against Sherlock’s chest. I feel his heart racing beneath my fingertips. Sherlock steps closer, and I bend my arm, to keep my hand on his heart. His hand smooths over my low back, a thrill rolls up my spine and I close my eyes to better focus on the sensation. Like a bow playing over the strings of his violin, Sherlock’s fingers play my nerves. His hand slides up the skin of my back and gently soothes muscles that are taught with anticipation. I shudder, my heart full of concern and love and gentle touches. My head falls forward to rest on Sherlock’s chest- he smells of warm rain and cotton - while his hand finishes its path against the back of my neck. His thumb brushes against the trimmed ends of the closely cropped hair at the nape of my neck. It is both soothing and stimulating. A tease and a comfort.

 

Sherlock presses a kiss to my head. With our arms wrapped around each other and our breathing somewhat labored, we sway just a little together, almost like that dance I am longing for. Being held this way reminds me of a million moments of intimacy. Of fights and comfort. Of love and vulnerability. Sherlock releases a long, shuddering breath, and I feel some of the tension escape him. I turn my head and place a kiss over his heart, imagining that it might heal, just a little, the ache he feels. 

 

Sherlock allows his hand to slide from my neck, over my shoulder, and down to my bicep, letting his fingers trace along my clavicle as he does. His fingertips leave trails of sparks that seem to fizz and pop in their wake. He takes a step back, tugging my arm gently so I’ll follow. I comply. Then, I reach up and place an open-mouthed kiss on his collarbone. He steps back again, and this time I press my lips to Sherlock’s throat. He steps back again and stops short, his back pressed against the wall. I put my hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to steady myself as I run the tip of my nose over the hollow of Sherlock’s throat.

 

Sherlock pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and furrows his brow. I smile, knowing that he’s attempting to control the litany of thoughts that tend to escape at times like these. I chuckle under my breath, my nose skimming past his ear as I consider how much that look turns me on. He tries so hard for me. He closes his eyes, a sign he’s struggling to keep his grip. His brilliant mind is a curse when what he longs for is a few moments of peace. His hands begin to tremble, and we both know what I must do. We know this dance well, and that only makes it more thrilling.

 

I lift my chin, pressing my lips to Sherlock’s neck, just below his left ear. I feel his breathing halt, his anticipation growing. I suck gently on his skin, careful not to leave a mark. Sherlock lets out a moan, and throws his head back against the wall, leaving the delicate skin of his throat available to me. I repeat the action over his Adam’s apple and again beneath his right ear. His breathing growing more erratic with each point of contact.

 

“Fuck!” Sherlock gasps when I pull his earlobe into my mouth and bite down. He bites his own lip hard, containing the litany of colorful language I know is flashing through his mind. He ought to be careful, I think, he’ll draw blood if he bites any harder.

 

I take a half-step back, removing all points of contact. I know exactly what Sherlock wants - what he needs to fight through the heavy burden of his genius. I smile to myself, feeling a coil of excitement building in the pit of my stomach. This is a service I can’t wait to provide. I take a quick breath, channeling the urgency of war. 

 

“Don’t you dare bite that lip, Sherlock.” I command, my voice low and sharp. 

 

Sherlock moans and opens his mouth, but keeps his eyes clenched shut.

 

“Look at what you’ve done to it.” I scold, trying not to let my own excitement ruin the act. I rub a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip - where there are marks from his teeth. I allow myself a moment to admire his mouth - open and pliable to me, now. The perfect peaks of his Cupid’s bow tempt me, and I long to kiss away the pain of his self-inflicted bite marks.

 

“That isn’t  _ your _ lip to damage, is it, Sherlock?” I mutter, surprised that I sound quite angry indeed. 

 

Sherlock shakes his head. I steady myself and check that my soldier facade is in place.

 

Sherlock opens his eyes and makes eye contact. I am standing close, and can see that his pupils are dilated, making his eyes to appear almost entirely black. My heart stutters at the sight, and I have to fight not to bite my own lip as a means of handling the sheer volume of desire I feel. It can’t be contained within my body. It is too big, too consuming. I breathe slowly,  _ nearly there,  _ I tell myself.

 

“Whose is it Sherlock?” I ask, my voice clipped from effort - it works for the role.

 

Sherlock is breathing heavily. His hands are in fists at his sides. 

 

“Yours,” he croaks, his voice horse, almost inaudible.

 

“I’m sorry?” I reply, my eyebrows raised in a dare.  _ See what happens if you don’t comply. _

 

Sherlock breathes in deeply, looks directly into my eyes and says, “Yours.”

 

There is a long moment in which we both stand stock still, our eyes burning into one another. I feel a thrill as my heart pumps flames through my veins until anything akin to control is gone. Burned away. We move toward each other, my hands clasp Sherlock’s head, fingers tangling into his hair. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling with a force of desperation. Our mouths crash together so hard that I groan in pain, but I am unwilling to ease up either. I need him like I need air to breathe, and the pain feels like a small price to pay for a fraction of a centimeter more. Sherlock does pull away, his eyes frantic, his face stained red from friction. He drops his head and latches on to my throat. It’s a more frantic mirror of the treatment I’d dolled out a few moments ago as he places open mouthed kisses across my skin. I pull on his hair, urging him on.

 

When Sherlock’s tongue traces a circle beneath my ear, I have reached the end of my tether. I release my grip on his hair and hastily loosen his belt, then the button of his trousers. I shove the clothing away impatiently. I feel Sherlock fumble with the tie on my pajamas, his hands unsteady with a need I know too well. 

 

When we are finally free of the barriers between us, we pull each other close, sighing aloud in relief. His skin feels warm against mine, and I close my eyes for a moment to notice the presence of him. The way his muscles contract as he gasps for air. How smooth his skin feels against mine. How his hands feel cooler than the rest of him. He has bowed his head to rest on my shoulder, his breaths puffing softly over my skin. 

 

Sherlock steps back to lean against the wall again; of course I stay close. He lifts his head, resting it against the wall. He is calmer now, he even manages a smirk as he reaches between us and takes my length in his hand. 

 

I groan and my knees weaken. I put my hands on the wall on either side of Sherlock for support. He is looking down now, focusing on the way his fingers caress me. I can hardly breathe when he rubs his thumb over my tip. I press forward wanting, no, needing more. 

 

He slides down the wall a short distance and uses his free hand to pull my body flush against his. I put my hands on his shoulders, relying on him to hold me up. I look up, and he captures my lips in a long slow kiss, his tongue teasing mine. His hand just barely fits between us to stroke us both at once. Skin as soft as silk slips together between his fingers. He instinctively presses my body hard against his as he bucks forward with a gasp. 

 

Sherlock builds the intensity, his arm working quicker, his hand squeezing harder, and our hips pressing together rhythmically. Staccato breathing fills the air. 

 

“Oh John,” he says, voice deep and harsh. 

 

My body responds to my name, shuddering against him, heart leaping in my chest, and every cell in my body fights to be closer still. I am unable to form words as I groan, dropping my forehead to his chest. 

 

His pace quickens again and I can feel the length of him pulsing against me. Like a heartbeat. Hot and strong and  _ mine _ . 

 

Sherlock is moaning. Eyes clenched tight again. 

 

“Yes.” He pauses, struggling to focus, gasping. “Yours” he finishes, and the pulse between us spills over. We ride out wave after wave of pleasure so powerful it sometimes feels like pain. Together we elicit every ounce of that pleasure, unable and unwilling to let it go so soon. We don’t stop until we are unable to go on, whole bodies trembling with exhaustion.

 

“Sherlock,” I breathe loosening my grip on his shoulders. He stops me, using his hand to press one of mine firmly against his chest. 

 

“Yours,” he whispers, wide eyes burning into mine.

 

“Always,” I respond, leaning in to kiss his hand where it rests over mine against his heart. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my girls- thank you for the inspiration, the laughs, and the love. You made me a writer again- thank you. :-*


End file.
